War and His Daughter
by Jord
Summary: A Gears squad launches a more discreet offensive in order to decimate Locust numbers. With the help of a proficient linguist and battle-averse woman, the squad hopes to complete the mission.But plans are very fragile things, as they soon come to find out.
1. Splinters in the Coffin

**This piece was mostly written for the sake of an impulsive mood. I tend to shy away from female leads in the GoW universe, but I felt strangely inclined to give it a go. I don't intend for it to be a long story (in comparison to my other Gears fic: A Grievous Redemption, anyway), and am also not entirely sure if I will continue it...which is why I wanted to warn the already-wary reader ahead of time.**

**The chapter is also rather shabbily written. I didn't go through this very well at all, so apologies are on the house today if it isn't up to par.**

**So what's this hogwash about, you ask?**

**Before I delve into the plot summary, I've got to give you a second warning - character development's gonna be heavy here too. We all know that war changes people, but I'm of the belief that the metamorphosis is unique to each person and what affects them. I'm going to try and explore this process in my story.  
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**As for the fic itself****, it's basically going to involve a Gears squad who've been directed to use a different type of offensive to reduce Locust numbers. They carry with them an important package, and a woman knowledgeable about Locust culture in order to execute their plans. The situation gets hairy when - not even a few hours into their mission - their Raven takes a hit and crashes. What follows are the events that happen after the crash.**

**P.S. If you spot any Mary-Sue prowlers in this story, please alert the authorities (which would be me). But let's be diplomatic about it, okay? ;)  
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When she came to, the first thing she wanted to do was to get that damned ringing out of her ears. But her body behaved as if inebriated, and her mind lagged behind with it. As clouded edges came into focus, objects began to coalesce into sense, and she saw small boxes, little crates, shards and insignificant debris. It all seemed quite normal, except for the fact that the world was topsy-turvy. She blinked at a further attempt at lucidity. No, the world wasn't crooked...it was this _place_, this vehicle, the Raven. It had spilled onto its side. And so had its contents.

And in that moment, an overwhelming feeling of her own mortality swept into her consciousness, the primal emotion set in her a tumult of panic and fear. It left little room for discernment of pain, and that perhaps was her saving grace, seeing as how it got her moving. She crawled forward mostly by the aid of her elbows, dragging her legs behind her. She hadn't given much thought to her crouching; it seemed an innate action. Besides, she'd seen enough war footage to recognize that standing up amidst gunfire without proper cover was positively suicidal. And now wasn't the time to sacrifice herself to martyrdom.

Her panic had subsided a bit, resting just long enough for her mind to play catch-up.

_Hullo_, she told herself, _where's the gunfire, then?_

_There isn't any_.

_Anti-aircraft guns? _

_No, nemacysts maybe. Or a missile_.

"Oh, who the bloody hell cares what it is!" she voiced out loud. "The thing is, sweetheart, we're down. We've been hit."

_Who's __**we**_?

Grimacing at the realization, she looked about her in dreadful anticipation. There, to her right lay a boot – one heavy combat boot. Its owner's leg extended beyond her vision; behind a fallen hulk of a seat. She shuffled over to him and tried to dislodge the thing to no avail. The body seemed well and truly stuck. The exerted effort had only managed to muster heaving breaths on her part. She poked at his leg, and then progressed to shaking it, willing the man to wake up. No dice.

A sudden sound of muted beeps – punctuated into a pattern she couldn't comprehend – emanated from the cockpit of the downed Raven. It jarred her, and she spun around instantly, half-expecting a Locust to be standing at the Raven's only opening, prepared to let dozens of bullets loose in her direction. But there was nothing. Just the repetitive beeps.

_Code. Some kind of code. Means that the radio might be working_.

The new task stoked slight flames of hope, and she hobbled over to the cockpit. The pilot was dead – slumped to one side like a limp doll. The presence of the body minus the soul disturbed her, but thankfully, his helmet masked a good portion of his face – and this grateful cowardice enabled her to push the man to one side in order to reach the radio. It was an undignified shove, but these were undignified times.

With the little knowledge that she had of radio controls, she flipped switches and turned dials; adjusting and searching for an appropriate frequency.

" – _Lima, Indigo, Zulu, forty-nine. We've reached an LZ and are coming down for the extraction. Over_."

The sound of his voice – whoever the hell it was – comforted her. It made her feel less lonely. She listened on.

"_Copy that, KR forty-nine, this is Control. The sky is ink-free._" came a woman's voice.

_Where were they communicating from_, she wondered? _Only one way to find out_. She picked up the radio and spoke into it.

"Hello? Is anyone there? This is –" _shit! What the hell was the name of the Raven she had boarded? Never mind that. Just give 'em that Mayday call and get some help down here._ "This is Nash Kutzev, we were on a Raven on our way to Elingrad, and – and we got hit, and –"

"_Who the hell is on this frequency? Control?_" interjected a startled voice. "_This channel's supposed to be kept clear!_"

"_What's your COG tag number?_" asked the woman at the other end, who'd seemed to take to this intrusion in a calmer manner.

"I don't know...I mean, I don't have one, dammit! I'm not a soldier!" exclaimed Nash.

"_Please identify yourself or stay off this channel, soldier_," the woman monotoned.

Nash thumped the overturned metal console in frustration. Getting help wasn't as easy as she expected.

"– _say Kutzev? Did you say Kutzev?_" issued the male voice.

"Yes!" croaked Nash, her voice hoarse from mounting worry.

"_Ah, hell no_," he said. Nash couldn't tell if he was angry or afraid. Well, what difference did it make? He apparently seemed to recognize the name.

"_Say again, KR forty-nine?_"

"_It's Colonel Kutzev – it's...he's the –_"

An ear-splitting scream tore through the confines of the cockpit, and she fell hurtling forwards, lodged somewhere between the chopper's windscreen and ceiling. She remained still – despite being aware that the situation was just worsening – and squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn't quite prone to bouts of panic, but this certainly was pushing it.

"Oh please, _ohpleaseohpleaseohplease_..." she moaned quietly. She then cracked her eyes open only to meet thick plumes of dust, smoke and who knew what else. The debris-filled air hadn't yet entered her lungs, but the image alone was enough to make her gag instinctively.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," she coughed. The radio had been put out of commission, that was for sure. She struggled awkwardly to get out of her wedged predicament, and started climbing up and over the transport's various hurdles. Her initial progress was slow, but on realizing that one missile was often followed by another, she quickened her pace. It seemed that the craft had tipped over almost onto its nose now. The pilot's body lay draped over something or the other – blissfully unaware of the wretched manner by which it had been thrown about.

Nash was surprised at how easily the will to survive had come to her, and she found herself wondering if it came to others just as freely. But to test that will _every _day? That was something that Gears did. It wasn't a life fit for her. She wasn't particularly squeamish – in fact, during her adolescent years, she'd donned a macho persona. She wanted to be just one of the boys. She wanted to serve the COG, fight for humanity, save the world. Notions of martyrdom that twisted together with noble ideals all seemed so terribly romantic at the time. And joining the COG would have empowered her; it would have made her part of something bigger. Something better.

But as experience had set in, fighting and gunning things down – even if they _were_ Locust – seemed a fruitless endeavor. Yes, humanity did deserve its right to life, but so did every other creature. To tear a life down herself, to be the one who pulled the trigger and orchestrate death would have left abysmal scars. And then, through the strength of fear, morals or both, she had abandoned her would-be weapons for something a little more peaceable.

She choked as she inhaled the dusty air, just as she had choked on her youthful decisions.

_Romantic, my ass_.

She heaved herself up partway through the opening. Rubble, chunky cement blocks and heaven knew what else surrounded the Raven. The chopper had made a notable crater in the ground when it had crashed; and had raised large fragments of the road along its periphery. She had to raise herself higher in order to catch a glimpse of what she was up against. Dead buildings and hollow interiors looked back at her in turn. There was nothing out of the ordinary – at least the war-torn version of _ordinary_. Her gaze swept ahead of her. A hefty figure – its silhouette distorted in the afternoon sunlight – stood at the end of the road. Slowly, and a little stupidly, she continued to stare at it. Her eyes traveled past the shimmering heat that wafted from the scorching asphalt, and at its large feet, up the stout legs, the very rounded waist and then to its arms. The image then brought to mind a single word.

_Boom_.

Her gut tightened and a surge of adrenaline pumped across her body. The Locust lifted its weapon, more than ready to send her onwards into another life. Nash scrambled up the opening, frantic – transfixed by the hulking mass that was to be her Grim Reaper. She lost her footing and sank halfway back into the Raven as one arm flailed uselessly in the air, desperate to latch onto something.

_Too late. It's too late now. Ah hell_.

She heard the shell being launched, and saw too many images – happy, sad, jealous, dirty, lazy, greedy – all of it pummeled into her mind in the form of an information overload. The moment seemed agonizingly endless, and for a split second she wondered if she was already dead. But no, the Boomer's shell hadn't come into contact with her or the Raven. At least not yet.

A muffled explosion emerged from her left, followed by a plume of black smoke which entertained angry flames at its center. But the eruption had occurred farther from her position – much farther.

_I know these Boomer's are bad shots, but really_...?

"Quit dicking around and get the hell outta there!" called out a voice from the streets.

Nash didn't need to be told twice. The Boomer was still there, his solid feet planted on the ground, but his attention had somehow been directed elsewhere. She clambered to the top of the craft and walked unsteadily over its side. She leapt over the rubble and dove straight for the nearest shelter she could find.

A deserted store did the trick. Just as she had slipped inside, she heard another shell being let off. Then a long stretch of silence followed, and within her temporary safety, she began to think defensively.

_I don't have a single gun on me_.

She shut her eyes – furious and ashamed. _So much for being cool under fire_.

"All clear!" came the voice again.

She squatted behind the store's counter, reluctant to move.

"I said: it's all clear! And it'd be smart if you got out now, y'know – while we're still young," sounded the voice. It seemed closer now.

She rose wearily past the steel counter and peered out into the open; shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare.

"You okay?"

His voice came from behind her and she started upon hearing it. "Yeah. It's been a hell of a day." said Nash. The first thing she noticed was the ruffled hair, unkempt and gritty. Other than the fact that he was leaner and missing most of his upper-body armour, he seemed the quintessential Gear. Steady. Solid. Unremarkable. Then she narrowed her eyes and spoke slowly, "I know you...don't I?"

"Yes ma'am, you do. I was on the same raven."

"But I didn't see you," she muttered. _Dear God, had her memory had it as well?_

"That's because I was up front with Klinsman."

"Who?"

"The pilot."

She paused; hesitant, and looked at her boots. "Oh. I see."

He construed the quiet comment to be that of reluctance; reluctance that was bred from not wanting to be the bearer of ill news. "It's okay. I know he's dead."

Her eyes quickly shot up to him. "Did you think I was dead too?" And then, her tone morphed into that of the offended. "You must've gotten out of there pretty fast. What, you didn't even think to check for a pulse?"

"I had to get the package to safety," he replied, not willing to commit to an argument. "If you remember – that was our priority."

She snorted.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, we'd better get moving. You coming?"

Nash exhaled heavily and leaned against the grimy wall of the store. She shook her head; tired and spent.

"Look, we can't be here. When that thing went down," he pointed in the direction of the crumbled Raven, "it left a trail of smoke. Plus, our Boomer let out a couple of noisy shots back there. There are going to be reinforcements. Or at least a scouting party."

"S'okay," she groaned, "Just leave me a damned pistol and go your way. I'm done here." She looked at him through exhausted eyes. "Yeah. I know what you're thinking. _Should've left her in the Raven_. Part of me might actually agree with you on that one."

"You always feel this sorry for yourself?" he asked, regarding her defeated expression with mild curiousity.

She stayed silent. It was her turn to shrug.

"Huh. I don't think it suits you."

She threw him a gaze that read: _I don't really care_, then looked away and ahead of them both – into her own thoughts.

"You know," he began, "if you wanted to hang yourself, I'd be happy to oblige. In fact, I'd give you a rope. But now's not the time because we need you alive..._and_ relatively intact."

"Since you asked so very nicely...." she declared – her voice drenched in saccharine sarcasm, before it trailed off.

He moved purposefully forward and yanked her away from the wall. He then stood behind her and shoved her forward; as if he was a cop arresting a delinquent headed for the juvie lockup. She stumbled, her gait undignified and morose.

"_Shit_. Alright, alright. I'm going."


	2. Tinker, Tailor

**Author's note (01/15/10):**

**And here's another one. Please note that my scientific knowledge is very coarse – and this is particularly evident in this chapter. So bear with me and make good use of your imagination!**

**Reviews are more than welcome, of course. Thanks to Jonesybites and Katimnai who've already taken the trouble to read and review. Your comments really do help sculpt the stories into better renditions of the original, and are much appreciated.**

**N.B. The rating has been scaled back to a tentative T. If you believe that there is language, or if there are any incidents that warrant a stern M, please PM me about it. Danke!  
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**One month ago**

He stretched his head back, such that the back of his neck arched inwards, and glared in frustration at the bland ceiling. "I hate fucking board meetings."

The statement was a theatrical one, and despite there being one other person in the room, the inflection and severity in his voice didn't request a response. But his companion – who was really more of an acquaintance – was unlearned in the Colonel's manners, and offered his opinion regardless.

"We're in a war. There are no board meetings in the middle of wars." The more slender man rolled the cuffs of his sleeves up along his arm. Slight beads of sweat were beginning to amass across his brow, and unbecoming, perspiring splotches expanded under his arms – making themselves known through the starched white shirt he wore.

"Bloody corporate goombahs. Maybe the only good thing about humanity being wiped out is that it'll take those bastards down with it."

The other man let out a dry laugh. "I wouldn't bet the farm. They'll probably find a way to preserve themselves, and then re-emerge afterwards – when hell has passed by."

His comrade guffawed loudly. The quip resonated well within his personality, and he put aside his frustration as he reached across the large table and offered out his hand. "Colonel Levine," he introduced himself, "and I'm always glad to meet an enemy of my enemy."

"Ah – I take it that dollar-signs-for-eyes are your secondary foes then? To the Locust, I mean," smiled the man as he accepted Levine's handshake. "Frederic Besson."

"A close second, son, a close second. Only by a fraction too. You're not a Gear though, are you?"

Besson laughed. Military brass – from the gold-plated right down to the copper tones – they were all the same. From General to private – first impressions always consisted of sorting out uniformed outfits from civilian ones. Then, and _only_ then, could serious dissection of personalities begin. Besson didn't hold this stereotyped personality-assessment against Levine, yet he found it strangely quaint and amusing.

"No Sir, I'm not a Gear. I'm a rep from the SSA."

Levine narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips in suspicion. Abbreviations of that sort stank of corporate demons, and his affable demeanour hardened into dubiosity.

"No – not _that _sort," hurried Besson, wondering why on earth he was trying to placate the Colonel's suspicions – it wasn't as if the man was his superior after all. "The SSA – Sera's Science Agency. Well, what's left of it anyway. We've funded the research at the division."

"Funded? Since when did the COG apply for funds? When did we find the _time_ to?" gaped Levine. "I thought we were in a fucking war!"

"Red tape is _thick_, Colonel."

"Gotta be a goddamned tough alloy," muttered Levine. "And it seems to me that we are in a board meeting after all then." he remarked, his face drawing nearer to resembling a gloomy cloud.

Just then, the solid oak door to the room pushed its way inwards, and a troop of three men entered. Their attire was far from casual, and deviated more towards appealing to a business-like arena. The first two sported ties, pressed jackets, and neat black pants. Their garb seemed to emerge from another era; one where capitalism thrived – devoid of wartime panic and unearthly enemies. The third seemed to integrate itself better into current conventions. He was clad in dulled, military green, on which was stitched colourful striations of commendations above his breast pocket. These were commendations that were only reserved for people who kept counsel with their own counterparts; those being brass that had topped hierarchy ladders.

"General Kutzev," said Colonel Levine loudly, and then stood up in haste, bringing his stiffened hand to his forehead in a swift salute.

Kutzev ritualistically dismissed the formal address and Levine sat down – the tension gone from his shoulders but not from his face. The General settled into a chair at the head of the table and scratched the back of his neck, as if reluctant to begin.

"I know this meeting is rather – well...it seemed like one hell of an _ad-lib_ to me, as I'm sure it does to you. This is the part where you expect me to tell you that it isn't as impromptu as you initially believed, and that it's of the utmost priority. But I'm not much of a liar, gentlemen. The fact is, what I'm about to propose – and what these good men –" here, he pointed at the clean-cut faces of the two men he'd been accompanied by, "have pitched to me only two days ago _is_ a shot in the dark. There's no other description that can be more fitting."

"General, if I may...?" interrupted Levine; tentatively requesting an opportunity to speak.

"You may."

The Colonel swallowed before he went on. "Shots in the dark are great – so long as they're literal, and not metaphorical. I've a small envoy to lead down into Elingrad. Our Gears there need more supplies urgently, and the Locust are rapidly cutting off our supply route. Time is of the essence in everything we do. You know that. My sitting in this room – this _delay _– it could cost us what little ground we've gained at Elingrad."

It was a bold statement – none of the men in the room could deny it. When stripped of its cordial prose, it was but a menacing skeleton that accused General Kutzev of being a time-waster and, very possibly, a leader who was indifferent to the plight of his men. The atmosphere in the room stiffened suddenly, and the three relatively neutral parties began to brace themselves against precipitating tempers.

But the corners of Kutzev's mouth only curved upwards into a grim, tightened smile. It wasn't forced. It was _knowing_. "I understand your need for haste, Colonel. And I sympathize with you. But we live in desperate times, and as children of desperation, we have to consider every possible offensive against our enemies. Even the rash, suicidal ones."

"Just how suicidal is this option?" queried Levine.

"Suicidal perhaps to the men I hope to send out. But it's a low number, and a small price to pay – especially if we are successful."

Levine leaned back into his seat, and mulled Kutzev's response for several moments. "We're not talking mass conversion of all our offensives, are we?" asked the Colonel as he emerged from his thoughts. "If you're talking about drastic changes of our tactics, I would have to respectfully disagree with your line of logic. A switch like that would cost us time, and it would enable and quicken Locust incursions _everywhere_."

"Yes and no," replied the General. "I'm ordering a tactical switch, of which I'm hopeful for success. But this isn't something I'm prepared to enforce within our entire army. At least, not until I know it works."

"What exactly _is_ this proposal then?"

"Ah, this is where Doctor Simmons and Doctor Makoto come in. Doctor Simmons has been in charge of the project for several years now, and Doctor Makoto is head of its division." Kutzev gestured towards the pair who fussed briefly with their ties during the introduction. He then nodded in Besson's direction. "I take it you've met Fred Besson – his agency has been generous enough to fund the work and supply the project with the necessary equipment."

"Which division is in charge of this project?"

"The neuroscience division," spoke Makoto for the first time. He looked questioningly at Kutzev, who issued a slight nod. "Pictures help explain things much better than words can, so if you gentlemen could spare me your attention for a few minutes, I can get this show on the road."

Makoto rose from his chair and set a projector on the solid table; pointing its display to a blank whiteboard. Simmons quickly drew the blinds and killed the lights, allowing for the informational slides to take precedence. The darkness and the solitary source of light seemed morosely foreboding to them, as if instead of hope, they were being presented with something mystical and alien. Something that had terrific potential to swing violently in one direction or another.

But curious musings were stayed by the click of a button. The first image on the screen was blurry, but depicted the unmistakable form of a Kantus priest. Behind him swarmed several Locust – some fighting, some being resurrected from near-death by the Kantus' supernatural calls.

Makoto cleared his throat. "I'm sure that by now, you're all aware of the intel we've collected on the Kantus. According to what we know on the Locust hierarchy system, these buggers are right up there. And they're – well, they're connected to the others within their species."

"Damn straight," murmured Levine; recollecting painful memories. "Them and their _damned_ Lazarus clones."

"Yes – er...right." The doctor went on. "What you probably don't know, is that we've managed to capture one of them. _Alive_." The first picture disappeared, making way for another that displayed the prostrate form of a Locust priest – unmoving and laid flat across a cold, metal table. "As you can see, we've run a series of tests – we've extracted tissue samples and have conducted experiments _in situ_, and we've amassed a wealth of data. We haven't had the resources nor the time to interpret all of this information, but some of our preliminary evaluations have yielded some interesting results."

Levine pursed his lips. Scientists had an uncanny ability to water down even the most vital pieces of news. They were a tentative bunch; wary and ever-suspicious of positive evidence. The only time when he recognized that something important had been discovered, is when one of the damned pedantic beings brought it to the attention of a party that didn't consist solely of their peers. This inclusive category being corporations. Institutions. The military.

The image changed again.

"This depiction, gentlemen, is a CT scan comparing the brain of your average human to that of a Locust drone and a Locust Kantus. The different regions have been colour-coded for your convenience, and depict varying levels of activity. I'm going to spare you from scientific lingo, and just tell you that the information here – on this screen – is plentiful. It tells us that various parts of their brain operate differently from that of a human's. And the difference is, really, quite significant."

Levine chewed on his lower lip, and glanced at his watch. The action was brief, but it didn't go unnoticed by Makoto.

The doctor pressed on. "I – er, that is to say that this portion of their brain," he pointed towards an orange region on the image, "is highly active – and also highly developed. Not so in humans. Their pons is also not situated close to their medulla –"

"Layman's terms, Doctor," said General Kutzev sternly, but not unkindly. "And like the Colonel said – time is of the essence."

"They are communicating to each other," said a nervous Makoto – the deduction gushing forward suddenly in one fluid torrent.

"Telepathically?" said Besson suddenly, asking the question that the Colonel dared not ask.

"Yes."

An uncomfortable silence followed.

An intrepid Besson broke it again. "But how do you know that? Is all your data based on _one_ CT scan?"

"_Of course not_," countered Makoto, slightly offended. "We've studied their brain waves, and we've collated several pieces of data that we've obtained from repeated testing. I even have these statistics – I've tabulated them on slide twenty-five –"

Kutzev let out a swift breath and interjected, spontaneously deciding to drive the conversation on Makoto's behalf and that of brevity's. "What he means to say is exactly what Fred's deduced. The bastards have a transmitting and receiving station in their heads. My assumption is that the Queen is at the top of it all – she communicates her orders to her underlings, and they in turn to theirs. It's probably the ultimate system of organization I've ever heard of."

"_Son of a bitch_," murmured Levine – his voice infused with simultaneous reverence and blasphemy.

Besson, in contrast, was quicker in accepting the information, and had already formulated questions to throw their way. "Just how _conclusive_ is this data? And how do you know that any sedatives or chemicals you've given your..._subjects _haven't influenced your results?"

"Nothing is a hundred-percent certifiable," said Makoto truthfully, "it's a sobering truth in science – just as it is in life. But our numbers are encouraging. And we've eliminated the possibility that any external factors have influenced this data."

Besson's voice lowered; setting the stage for the most revealing questions of all. "Can we – ah – interrupt this frequency? I mean, simply _knowing_ that they're telepathically chatting with each other is all well and good, but if we can't do anything about it, it's all pretty academic, isn't it?"

"Yes," replied Makoto, "there is a way."

"How?"

"A pathogen. It's more common among bovine creatures – cows, sheep. And it specifically targets tissue in the nervous system, but the naturally-occurring pathogen – while quite capable of harmful, degenerative effects – is slow-acting. In order for it to cause significant damage to motor skills and what-not, it takes about ten to fifteen years."

"We'd be six feet under by then," Levin spurted.

"The pathogen has been enhanced. That is to say, we've tailored it to be more of a catalyst than a mild disease. And what's more, we've ensured that it does not have any effects on human beings."

"A Locust-specific bug. I'll be damned. What happens when you expose 'em to it? And you're _sure_ that it doesn't mess with our heads, right?" questioned the Colonel.

"The Locust suffer seizures that are similar to epileptic fits – but on a more dangerous scale. Eight times out of ten, these seizures are fatal, and they flatline after about three or four hours. As for people – we've obtained consistently negative results on exposure. There are zero side effects as well."

"Zero seems just as dubious as a perfect hundred," remarked Besson; not entirely convinced. "And who's to say that there aren't side effects? You guys really haven't had enough time to make that kind of claim."

"Desperate times," intervened Kutzev.

"Yeah, but mucking about with nature like this..." ventured Besson again.

"...is something that needs doing." finished Kutzev. He gave Besson a scornful look. "And you're from the SSA, Fred! You used to help fund research like this, remember?"

"_No_..." frowned Besson as he shook his head. He turned to Makoto and Simmons. "Not something as radical as this. We gave you the equipment for something entirely different – this _voodoo_ science isn't even a science. Your grant – it outlined something different. You didn't state that you were trying to advance a viral pathogen." His voice tensed, and he repeatedly stabbed the table with his index finger. "Bacteria, viruses...they evolve at astonishing rates. With all your confidence in your abilities, you've managed to overlook possible mutations. And experience tells me that mutated outcomes are difficult to predict – within one year you'll have exponential growth of millions of strains. Chuck a little Darwinism into the mix and you'll have some pretty tough candidates that could potentially exhibit inter-species transfers. And then, my friend, we'd be fucked like a full-scale nuclear war. Maybe even worse."

"Ever the dramatist," noted Kutzev.

A beat.

Colonel Levine licked his lips, Besson and Simmons sat in muted silence and Makoto stood quietly with his pointer in hand. Kutzev directed his glower towards a shut window. The closing finale seemed thick, hot and frigid all at the same time. The five figures in the room were stiff – frozen in time and thought.

The least brave of them experienced a sudden surge of boldness, and he seized this courage impulsively. "The pathogen _is_ containable within one species. Its structure and effects haven't altered much within a full century. There will be no variant." said Makoto.

"But you've played God," muttered Besson quietly, "You've played God with no experience and a paltry resumé. Nature created this infection, and She designed it rightly for Her own reasons. But you've tampered with Her creation, and you've turned an imp into the devil. You haven't _earned_ the right to interfere. You've stolen it. And you'll find that both God and Nature aren't forgiving entities. They can be quite merciless."

"They already have been." said Kutzev. His words seemed final, and he delivered them with conviction and an impetuosity borne of his situation, and that of the human race. "And you seem to think that I'm here to ask for your blessing. That this song and dance is some kind of marketing gimmick...?" he scoffed. "It was a courtesy, Fred. Nothing more."

Besson scowled, and spoke with the hope that his last card might put an end to this verbal swordplay. "I'm withdrawing the funding. The equipment, _everything_. We're pulling the plug on this freak-show."

A sort of satisfying smugness slowly swept over the General's long face. He leaned back into the upholstery of his seat and folded his arms across his chest with a grin. "I'm sorry, Fred, but your opinion doesn't hold much sway in the arena anymore. We're living in times of war. Legislature that our very own Council of Sovereigns has passed directs that the military arm of our government has jurisdiction over these things."

"Your authority – it borders on mutiny. I can appeal to the Chairman."

The General shrugged his shoulders in nonchalance. "Who do you think gave us the green light? A puny religious effigy? The directive was approved by the highest authority. Prescott himself. As of E-Day, my whims carry more weight than your words."

"This isn't just a whim," said Besson as his shoulders drooped.

The smile vanished. "You're right. It isn't. It's a very well thought-out directive. Which you – Colonel Levine – will see through to fruition."

"What about the supplies to Elingrad?" asked Levine, concerned.

"Any old shmuck can handle that," said Kutzev. He was a patient man when he wanted to be, but this wasn't one of those times. "I need you to pool together a group of Gears to escort one of Doctor Makoto's scientists to release the pathogen."

"You're going to release it freely into the air?" exclaimed Besson, incredulous.

"Something like that." said Kutzev curtly. He turned to the Colonel. "Levine, I'm gonna need you to stick around for a few minutes after the others leave."

Besson rose from his seat and marched towards Kutzev; his eyes plaintive. "General, just forget our exchange for a minute – let's put aside our egos for just one moment. I need you to understand how bad this could get. It's one thing to fight Locust, but to fight an invisible enemy that gets into your system only to wreak havoc – it's suicidal. Maybe – maybe if we had enough medical and technological resources as a partial failsafe, maybe we could scrape by. But not like this. Not _now_."

"Your opinion has been considered, Fred, and it's been deemed immaterial."

"You can't do this...."

"Desperate times, Fred. Desperate times."

* * *

"I still think you ought to take a COG scientist, General. Civvies are...unpredictable. And to trust a single person to execute this properly – it's one hell of a gamble." said Colonel Levine.

The pair sat alone in the room, facing one another not as combatants in a debate, but as two scheming men who were aware that their hand was a poor one.

"Like it or not – and I certainly _don't_ like it – she's got some convenient credentials."

Mistaking his reluctant attitude for concern, Levine pressed his superior to reconsider his decision. "You've lost a son already, Sir, you don't want to risk your daughter's life now too, do you?"

Kutzev laughed dryly. "Whatever cost she has to pay is of little consequence, so long as she gets the job done. She might have a lot of my first wife's idealism in her genes, but her practicality and intelligence – now _that_ she gets from me."

"Civvies are prone to panic," countered the Colonel, ever-persistent.

"Natasha is not an easily-flustered hen." shot back Kutzev.

"She _did_ choose not to serve...."

"That wasn't cowardice. That was rebellion that didn't get dislodged after adolescence."

"Be that as it may," murmured Levine dubiously, "she could prove to be a significant liability. Like you said – we've only got one shot at this. We have to make it count. And...at the risk of sounding too bold, I have to respectfully say that the unit I have in mind – they've heard of your daughter, and they certainly don't hold her in very high esteem. Orders are orders, and have to be carried out. But emotions, feelings, opinions...they're sticky things – and not easy to dismiss."

"This isn't journalism camp, Levine. Hell, it's not even boot camp anymore. We're in the middle of a goddamned war. I'm not asking them to write a bloody editorial on her lack of service to the COG, I'm asking them to escort her to a given location. They've done it before with other VIPs, and they can do it again. Natasha is by no means a VIP – at least not in my book, and she's never going to be the prodigal daughter – but she's studied alongside Regis, and she's worked in Makoto's lab. She's got two fields of experience under her belt, and she'll use them to the best of her ability. Trust me."

"She knows about the effects of the pathogen then?" asked the Colonel as he raised a curious brow. "And she's okay with it?"

Kutzev let out a short chortle. "In a way – _yes_. But she thinks we're going to infect the Locust with the natural strain. That this outing is more of a scientific excursion – observe and report kind of stuff. I've instructed Makoto and Simmons to keep her in the dark there." He sighed, "Was a bloody task trying to get around the ethics of that with her too. But she caught on. Imagine if she knew about the newer strain! It's hard, I tell you, dealing with an ethicist in your own family. Emma – my first wife – was a handful, and when she left me I thought I'd been spared from her sermonizing. But then Natasha had to grow up and take after her mother."

The Colonel smiled wanly, sympathetically. He was aware of Kutzev's shame when it came to his daughter, but he didn't realize that this shame had sprouted roots of cold apathy – and that these roots ran deep. Still, the General – probably the toughest candidate to convince of them all – had realized that she was a good piece on the board, a capable piece. And despite his misgivings, Levine really couldn't counter the argument as well as he'd intended to. And so he accepted the order, to the relief of his superior, who then dismissed him.

On Levine's way out, Kutzev's voice – part-musing and part-sad-introspection – carried across to him.

"You know – when I was a Colonel, like you were – my men used to ask me about my children. Now Liam – gushing about him came naturally. Natasha was harder to explain. And then a few years later she refused the conscription notices and went underground with some other bloody misfits. Even then though, she couldn't keep quiet. Had to launch protests. Said something about finding a peaceable agreement with the Locust, and that we could co-exist with them. That didn't last too long, and it took a single mortar shell to blow her ideals to hell and beyond. You know what my men used to call her? Behind my back, of course. _Locust lover_. And that was _mild_, considering that the other branding iron was _E-Day whore_."


End file.
